


Interval

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha!John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Kink Meme, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega!Sherlock, Omegaverse, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-27
Updated: 2012-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-30 05:10:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You shouldn't leave the window open in your state. It's dangerous.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interval

 

This is a fill for a prompt on the kinkmeme…or, more accurately, for [a fic search](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9894.html?thread=79514022#t79514022) that essentially became a prompt. Anon asked for “omegaverse without abuse,” i.e., a fic with an alpha/omega relationship, but not so heavy on the consent issues.

  
  


**1.**

 

He must have heard the click of John’s mug on the worktop. Sherlock called from the bedroom, “If you’re making coffee, I’ll have some.”

John had the kettle on, and was reaching into the breadbox. “I’m not,” he shouted back. “I’m making tea.”

“I’ll have coffee all the same,” said Sherlock.

The insubordinate eye-roll and sigh were for no one’s benefit. John obediently pulled another mug out of the cupboard and switched on the coffee maker.

The toast and tea would be a few minutes. John wandered into the bedroom, where under the duvet, the clicking of a texting keyboard could be heard. John grabbed the edge of the duvet and flung it away, revealing a prone, nude Sherlock, who continued texting. John sat himself on the backs of Sherlock’s thighs, taking a moment to admire the subtle curves and valleys that lay beneath him, before he began to lightly, rhythmically slap Sherlock’s behind with both hands, as though he were playing the bongos.

Sherlock slid the keyboard shut on his mobile and looked straight ahead. “What. Are you doing.”

“What? Just killing time ‘til the kettle boils.” He smiled at the comical yet alluring way Sherlock’s bum jiggled with each firm pat. The wobbling became continuous as he sped up the beat, and the sight made him chuckle. He tilted his head back and forth a bit, like he was getting lost in his own rhythm.

When he heard the toast pop up, he concluded by gripping Sherlock’s buttocks, one in each hand, and giving them a firm squeeze and two slightly more forceful smacks. “Hmm,” he smiled, then got up and returned to the kitchen. Sherlock grumbled and pulled the duvet back over himself.

  
  


**2.**

 

The distinctive sound of the street door was Sherlock’s cue to rouse himself from the sofa and stagger down the stairs to meet John on the landing.

“John!”

Adjusting the strap of his briefcase on his shoulder, John groaned, “Please, I’ve had a rough day--”

“Smell me!”

John snapped to attention. He leaned forward, until the tip of his nose touched Sherlock’s collarbone, and inhaled. Nothing out of the ordinary, though Sherlock’s usual scent was its own sort of arousing. He made the most of the offer and put one arm around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him closer and standing on tiptoe to take a long whiff of the spot behind Sherlock’s ear.

“Nothing,” John finally lamented.

“Must be the flu, then,” Sherlock said.

“Feeling out of sorts, are we?”

“Or food poisoning,” Sherlock went on. “You know I don’t like sushi.”

“You didn’t even have any. You complained, like you always do when I pick the restaurant, and then you ate nine bowls of edamame.” John reconsidered his tone when he examined Sherlock’s complexion. “You do look a bit peaky. Let’s get you to bed.”

Sherlock merely grunted as John led him up the stairs. “…’m sorry it’s not my Time,” he mumbled.

“It’s alright. It’ll come along.”

In the bedroom, John pulled the covers back and guided his charge onto the bed. Sherlock took a moment to undress before getting under the duvet. Watching the languid movements of that graceful physique, John had to remind himself that Sherlock was ill, and he shouldn’t let himself be distracted by inappropriate thoughts.

“Duvet? No duvet?” John said, flipping the corner to illustrate.

“Yes, I’m freezing.” Sherlock folded himself into the bed and under the covers as John tucked him in. “I was rather looking forward to it,” he admitted, nuzzling into the pillow. “Nothing on, not a single interesting homicide in weeks. Now would be the perfect time for me to…for it to happen.”

John had so much he wanted to tell Sherlock in reply. But instead he merely said, “Get some rest. I’m going down to the shops to get you a clear fizzy drink to settle your stomach.”

  
  


**3.**

 

“Shit. There’s two, look.” John nodded in the respective directions of both men fitting the profile Sherlock had put together: shorter than average, slight limp, wearing a hoodie, carrying a large department store shopping bag. One was headed for the Piccadilly line, the other for Bakerloo.

“You take Bakerloo,” Sherlock said, and then headed to the right. John’s man was already on the escalator. By the time John got on, he and his quarry were separated by a horde of tourists who didn’t understand that if you’re not going to move, you should stand to one side. He kept an eye on the hoodie as long as he could, but it disappeared in the crowd.

When he got off the escalator, he darted past the three possible routes: north- and south-bound corridor, northbound corridor, southbound stairs. Not seeing the hoodie, John took a chance and headed down the stairs to the south-bound line. It was a lucky guess. There the man stood, and John leapt for him, pinning him to the wall only to discover that he was barely a man at all. The kid was maybe fifteen. Definitely not who they were looking for. Still holding him by the neck, John smelled something maddeningly enticing. For a moment, his mind clouded over. He pressed himself against the boy, only snapping out of it when his forcefulness earned him a pathetic cry for help from the boy.

“Feeling a bit ill?” John said, as he released the boy. Under the hoodie, a nod, and a confused and fearful gaze.

“Not felt this way before, I’ll bet.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Wherever you’re going, don’t. Go home right now and pray that on the way you don’t run into anyone with fewer scruples than I’ve got. You’ll feel fine tomorrow, but stay in the house for a few days, understand?”

The boy nodded again, then bounded like a gazelle onto the south-bound train. John watched him go and headed back up the stairs, concentrating on the grating noise and stuffy air, trying to will the tingling desire out of his body. He did feel just slightly smug. He had just exercised extraordinary discipline, there. John prided himself on his self-control.

  
  


**4.**

 

Hearing a soft crunch underfoot, John looked down to find a single, sea-green styrofoam packing peanut. He pinched it between thumb and forefinger, and as he continued up the stairs he examined it, though he knew not what, precisely, he was looking for.

Three steps from the door, he saw two more peanuts. He remembered, then, that an enormous cardboard box had arrived for Sherlock the day before, containing quite a lot of glassware for the kitchen’s chemistry setup. That must be where all the styrofoam had come from.

The door was slightly ajar, and another handful of peanuts appeared to have spilled out of the sitting room. John was suddenly filled with dread. As he opened the door he thought, _Oh, no. No, those things are murder to clean up. They cling to your hands and float all over the_ \--

On the coffee table, the box had been overturned and emptied. The packing peanuts were _everywhere_. Stuck between the cushions of the sofa. On the mantel. Inside the shoes by the door. Piled on the chairs. On every shelf.

Sherlock paced back and forth, crunching peanuts beneath his bare feet. Even when he wasn’t stepping on new ones, he had old ones clinging between his toes, and every step made that tiny, horrible squeaking noise. He cradled his laptop in one arm and typed with the other. Each time he turned, his dressing gown caused a breeze that blew all the nearby peanuts into a flurry. There was one in his coffee mug. He ignored it and drank anyway.

“Why,” John said. “Why packing peanuts, of all the-- _Why?_ ”

“Ugh, John, I did that hours ago, you’re still going on about it?”

John dropped his bag and went into the kitchen for the broom and dustpan, lot of good it would do on these elusive bits of nightmare. “I hope,” he called back to Sherlock, “whatever this was for, you accomplished it.”

“What? No, it wasn’t an experiment, or anything. Throwing something around just made me feel better. For three minutes.”

“Oh, good, so it was all worth it, then.”

“Do you have to complain so loudly? I’m having enough trouble thinking at the moment.”

Sherlock was having trouble thinking? John’s eyes widened. “Is it Time?”

“No. It can’t be. It is not _allowed_ to be Time. I have to finish this case. I know the head of the smuggling ring is using three books to create his codes. All I need to do is determine who in the UK owns copies of Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Beatson’s _A View of the Origin and Conduct of the War With Tippoo Sultain_ , de Saint-Martin’s _Monographie sur la range_ , and the _Anti-Corn-Law Almanack for the Year 1841_. It’s the simplest thing to research, but I can’t do it because my brain is filling with stupid animal urges at an alarming rate.”

“Three weeks ago you were saying how you were looking forward to it being your Time.”

“Three weeks ago I was an idiot.” Sherlock slammed his hand on the keyboard. “And now I can’t type!”

“Here.” John yanked the laptop from Sherlock’s grasp and set it on the table -- after sweeping away some packing peanuts. He pulled out a chair and clapped hands on Sherlock’s shoulders to push him into it.  “Use the thing like a normal person would do, and you may have more luck.”

But when Sherlock was firmly seated, John didn’t let go. Now that he was this close, he could smell it. Oh yes, it was coming on. And this wasn’t just any omega in heat, some kid on the Tube who didn’t know any better. It was Sherlock’s signature scent that John was inhaling, a scent he found more difficult to resist. But Sherlock was hours from being ready, if John had to be this close to detect it.

“Change of plans,” John said. “Grab the laptop.” He hooked his arms under Sherlock’s armpits and hauled him up, frog-marching him through the kitchen, laptop and all. “I’m leaving for a while. When I come back, you better be locked in your room, and stay locked in until you’re ready for me. Got it?”

“My mobile--”

“I’ll bring it.”

“John, I can’t think straight. I won’t be able to--”

“Give that book list to someone at the University of London and let them figure it out, then, if you can’t! Christ, how it is that your brain is disintegrating but your ego remains so flawlessly intact?” Confused and frustrated at being shoved around, Sherlock fixed John with a look over the threshold of the bedroom, and John pressed his hands to his face. “Sorry, sorry. I just-- listen, I’m giving you four hours. I’m going to the cinema, and I’ll be back in four hours. Find the book collector. Did you remember to take your pill?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You wouldn’t lie to me.”

“I took it. Count them if you don’t believe me.”

John found the prescription bottle in the kitchen cupboard. Six pills left, just as there should have been, if Sherlock had taken one when he’d sensed earlier in the day that his Time was coming on.

“Four hours,” he repeated as he shut Sherlock in to his room.

John couldn’t get out of the flat fast enough. He stood outside, on the stoop, and did the breathing exercises his therapist had taught him, holding his jacket in front of him until his erection subsided.

  
  


**5.**

 

John and Sherlock had essentially not had sex since Sherlock’s last heat, ten months ago. For the most part, this arrangement was acceptable to John, though not ideal. He had gotten a brief taste of Sherlock’s favours only twice in that time. Having caught the scent, on those respective occasions, of an unwary omega in heat -- not like the boy on the Tube, but well into their cycle and swimming in pheromones -- John thought he would go mad with desire, and obtained a modicum of relief only when Sherlock provided him with a furtive wank, the first time in a cab, the second time in a public loo. It wasn’t enough to sate John entirely, but it settled his roiling guts and unclouded his mind sufficiently for the pair to continue on their way.

John saw something unremarkable at the cinema, and on the way home did some shopping. For the next week or so, neither he nor Sherlock would be inclined to leave the flat, nor would they want to spend a lot of time cooking, so John bought several days’ worth of sandwich ingredients, as well as fresh fruit, bottled water, biscuits; things they could keep by the bedside.

Upon returning to the flat, John found the bedroom door closed and still locked. It would be unlocked soon enough. In the meantime, he put away the shopping, gathered up the laundry, and set to work tidying away the packing peanuts. The anticipatory energy he felt made the task bearable.

Not long after the cardboard box was refilled, and a pile of fresh, warm sheets and towels dumped on the sofa, the bedroom door clicked. John snapped to, in much the manner of a deer who had heard a twig break on the forest floor. He snatched up the sheets and towels and dropped them in the laundry basket, leaving the remaining clothes. He put the paper bag full of fruit and bottled water on top, brought the lot to the bedroom door, and hefted it on one hip while slowly turning the knob and peering inside.

Before he saw Sherlock, he saw that the window was open to admit a breeze, though that did little to dilute the very clear signals being broadcast to John through the air of the room.

“You shouldn’t leave the window open in your state,” he said as he dropped the basket. “It’s dangerous.”

Sherlock came into view as the door swung wide. “Then you’ll just have to put your alpha scent on me,” he said, “to deter any potential suitors.”

Sherlock wore nothing whatsoever. His expression was mischievous and his approach half-slink, half-swagger. He closed the door by pressing John against it. His smell immediately fogged John’s mind and made his cock twitch -- Sherlock was as keen as he would ever be, and though his eagerness was fresh right now, it would not abate for days.

“Oh John, you’re so good to me,” Sherlock murmured, rubbing against John as though it were the only way he could think of to express his gratitude. “You always do the shopping and make sure everything will be clean and comfortable. I don’t deserve such a considerate alpha.”

John swallowed, fighting for just a few more moments of civility before he let his urges conquer them both. “I’m happy to do it, so that you needn’t worry and can spend the week concentrating on the most important thing.”

“Yes, and what’s that?” Sherlock breathed teasingly into John’s ear.

“Being my little fuck-toy,” John growled back at him. “Bouncing on my cock is going to be your full-time job for the next few days.” His stomach dropped when he heard himself. John was in that twilight space now, where he was being overtaken by his urges but was still taken aback by his own filthy mouth.

Sherlock continued to rub himself against John whilst undressing him, tugging impatiently at buttons and grunting.

“You know,” John said smugly, “this morning you were upset that you’d begun feeling this way.”

“This morning I was an idiot,” Sherlock said into John’s neck as he shoved John’s trousers down.

John sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled Sherlock by the waist towards him. He was trying to get Sherlock onto the bed, but instead Sherlock rooted himself in front of John, his stiff little cock inches from John’s eyes. He began to stroke himself, asking, as he did so, “Do you like my prick? Do alphas care for them? I know it’s small, but do you think it’s lovely at all?”

The question confused John. He honestly hadn’t given much thought to Sherlock’s penis. It was true, being an omega, Sherlock had no great size to boast of, but who cared? Alphas had been bred to have big, impressive cocks, whereas omegas’ penises were regarded as practically vestigial. It was as though Sherlock were asking John to have an opinion on the aesthetic value of his appendix.

But since Sherlock was pointing it out to him, John did note that Sherlock’s cock was nicely-shaped and had a pleasant rosy hue. It being positioned where it was currently positioned, he decided that a highly effective method of demonstrating approval would be to take it into his mouth. He did so, easily engulfing it and eliciting a pleased but surprised noise from Sherlock.

This wasn’t really something that alphas did to omegas; omegas always either wanted to be bred or left alone, never anything in between. Oral sex was considered a “beta thing.” But why not do this, John thought. Why not pleasure his omega this way? Sherlock’s penis had no fewer nerves than any alpha’s, after all.

He suckled until Sherlock made a little sound, and a single tiny spurt of saltiness crossed John’s tongue. Startled, John swallowed it down, then pulled away and said, “Did you just come?”

A look of shame and panic came over Sherlock’s face, and he began to grovel. “I’m sorry, John, I’m sorry. I still want it.” He kneeled on the edge of the bed and put his face against the mattress. “Look! I still want it. Please don’t be angry with me.”

“Of course I’m not angry with you,” John said. “But get up. First you’re going to ride me.”

John wasn’t really particular about positions; he liked Sherlock any way. But this was a days-long process, and required planning. The sooner John got on top, the sooner his shoulder would start to complain. There was plenty of time for John to put Sherlock on his back to pound him like the greedy little omega he was (and later, turn him on his belly, when he was too exhausted to put his legs in the air). In the meantime, John was happy to let Sherlock ride him for the first few rounds.

It was also nice to watch what Sherlock did when he was allowed to set the pace, and could control how much he took in. It always turned out to be just as much as if he’d been entirely at John’s mercy. Sherlock’s body easily admitted John’s entire length and girth, then contracted around it. His thighs flexed with each smooth, slick stroke.

For John, this first time was about sating his blind urge to get inside Sherlock and bury his seed as quickly as possible. The speed with which Sherlock was now helping accomplish this pleased him. And whenever he smelled Sherlock in heat, and finally allowed himself to succumb to his urges, John thought that nothing could be more dire than his own physical need. But when the moment of truth arrived, and his knot formed inside Sherlock, and Sherlock milked him minute after long minute, it reminded him that Sherlock’s body was even more demanding than his own.

As the hours passed, this white-hot intensity cooled slightly, and though they both continued to feel the urgency, there was more room to linger, to appreciate each other’s bodies, perhaps even to talk and giggle during it. Sometimes John would stop suddenly in the middle of it and, for no reason other than ten thousand years of genetic predisposition, scan the room for competitors. Finding none, but reminded of his good fortune in securing such a desirable omega, he would babble endearments and praise until he knotted Sherlock again and lost all verbal capability.

Toward the end, it became more mechanical, their hormones prodding them into keeping on, despite the protests of their muscles and sometimes their empty stomachs. Something inside each of them was convincing them to forego even the food and water that was within arm’s reach, in favour of another bout. Once, John woke up with Sherlock riding him. “Sorry,” Sherlock grunted. “I feel like I need it just once more.” (It was the third time he’d said that.)

Then the intervals between bouts lengthened. They lounged, which was in neither of their natures. Between naps, John would guzzle water, maybe peel a banana and break off bits of it to feed to Sherlock. Neither of them would say much, their throats raw from screaming.

Occasionally one or the other would get up for the loo. John had to fight the urge to follow whenever Sherlock got up. He couldn’t help feeling that letting Sherlock be by himself even for that long, those few metres away, was dangerous. As Sherlock’s heat was coming to an end, he smelled more like his alpha than anything else, but if another, reckless alpha happened along, he might attempt to abduct the weakened and exhausted Sherlock and breed him in the hopes that his genetic material would edge out that of his predecessor. John had to constantly reassure himself that there were no alphas milling about the flat, but nonetheless, as soon as Sherlock returned to bed, John would wrap Sherlock in his arms, protecting him but also allowing John to sniff him for traces of a competitor.

It wasn’t the end of the sex that John dreaded. Even when they’d gone their last round and it became clear to him that it would be months, perhaps a year, before he and Sherlock would have sex again, he still had a day or so more to enjoy his pliant, quiet, affectionate omega, and that staved off his disappointment.

What he dreaded was being woken by Sherlock wresting himself from John’s grip and flouncing out into the sitting room, all the while renewing his temporarily-forgotten assertion that cuddling was “boring.” A shower, a suit, and a spritz of cologne later, Sherlock’s omega status was nigh-undetectable. The only thing remaining was for John to give him a final sniff to make sure he was safe to go out, and he was down the stairs and on his way to Bart’s to dissolve paint chips in things.

John showered after Sherlock left, washing away the odors and fluids the two of them had been happily wallowing in for days. He would miss his omega, but as he was scrubbing he had a brief, secret smile and muttered to himself, “You can be as cocky as you like, with your cologne and your experiments. But I’m still going to play the bongos on your bum.”


End file.
